


all i have left is my memories of yesterday

by raikotoho



Category: Warehouse 13
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-05
Updated: 2012-04-05
Packaged: 2017-11-03 02:53:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/376301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raikotoho/pseuds/raikotoho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Myka knows Helena is gone. But sometimes, it's hard to remember.</p>
            </blockquote>





	all i have left is my memories of yesterday

Myka reached into her pocket, feeling for the Roman coin she had pressed there, wrapped in a purple Artifact glove. The soft gold, once stamped with the image of two-faced Janus, was now warped and twisted into an unrecognizable, molten lump. It was utterly and completely destroyed — as was the woman who had been stored on it.

The agent bit her lip, folding her hands on her lap, and trained her gaze on the road. Pete was driving almost double the speed limit, unusually focused; Claudia was in the back, making last-minute adjustments to their Tesla rifles. Myka took a deep breath, gathering herself. More than anything, she needed this mission to succeed. She didn’t know what she’d do if…

She shook her head, clearing away the distracting thoughts. _Mind on the game, Myka._

They pulled up to the decommissioned hangar with a screech and the smell of burning rubber, bursting out of the SUV before it had fully stopped and charging in without hesitation. Claudia and Pete surprised Sykes and Diamond, training their rifles on the two men and demanding surrender. Myka didn’t waste time with talk; she took out Tyler Struhl right away and Tesla’d Steve as he came around the corner, ignoring Claudia’s indignant look.

Then, she put her gun away and went for her true objective.

“Are you alright?” she asked Emily Lake, fumbling with the restraints.

The woman responded with a sob, throwing her arms around the agent as soon as they were free. Myka caught her instinctively, holding her tightly, and felt hot tears on her neck.

“Thank you, thank you so much,” Emily murmured over and over again, and Myka closed her eyes, finally letting her own tears fall.

No victory, no matter how large, would ever be able to replace what she had lost.

_I miss you, Helena._

**……**

The drive to Cheyenne was quiet. Myka clenched her hands tightly around the wheel, staring at the stark cone formed by the SUV’s bright headlights on the dark road. Emily had tipped her head against the window, gazing unblinkingly at the dim shapes flashing by.

“I’m sorry,” she said, out of the blue, and Myka shot her a quick glance before returning to the road.

“What for?” she asked.

“For causing you all this trouble,” Emily said. “For attacking you with a knife, for needing you to rescue me. And I know you’d rather be back at your warehouse instead of babysitting.”

Myka winced. In retrospect, she probably shouldn’t have argued with Mrs. Frederic with Emily sitting right there. Still, just because she knew Helena the best didn’t mean she was the most qualified for this job — in fact, she rather thought it meant she should be staying the furthest away. She didn’t voice these thoughts, mindful of the undertone of distress in the other woman’s voice.

“It’s not that,” she said instead. “I just… it’s been a long day.”

“I’ll second that,” Emily said. She fell silent for a moment, then whispered, “Thank you.”

Myka did not know how to answer that.

They pulled onto Lincoln Avenue, and Myka killed the engine, checking the Tesla in her pocket. “Stay close,” she ordered, scanning the shadows around them, and Emily nervously obeyed.

“Do you really think there’ll be trouble?”

“With the Warehouse,” Myka said, “anything is possible.”

They didn’t find any trouble except for an angry landlord, who was quickly pacified by Myka’s Secret Service badge. Then, they went up to the fifth floor and were faced with the destruction Pete had caused to Emily’s apartment.

“Well,” Myka said, surveying the shattered coffee table and broken window, “looks like we’re in a hotel for the night.”

“Dickens!” Emily called worriedly, and the grey cat uncurled from his spot on a high shelf, easily leaping down from his perch. She scooped him up, scratching behind his ears. “Just let me pack some clothes. Would you mind feeding Dickens? The cat food’s on the bottom left of the pantry, and his bowl is in the dish drainer.”

Myka dutifully opened a can and went to wait in the living room, picking at a gash in the couch cushions and listening as Emily rummaged around in the bedroom.

There was a sudden squeak and a loud thump, and the agent was halfway across the room before Emily called a sheepish reassurance. Myka checked anyway, and, after confirming Emily’s safety, began perusing the other woman’s bookshelves while she waited.

There were the classics she expected from any literature teacher — Dickens, of course, and Shakespeare, and Hemmingway, and a million other titles and authors. But there were also several more lighthearted books: fantasy, memoirs, romance. Myka smiled, dragging her fingertips along the worn spines and selecting one at random.

Then, she dropped it like a hot coal when she caught sight of the cover:

 _The Time Machine_ , by H.G. Wells.

**……**

Myka’s assignment was to guard Emily Lake for a two week period while she settled her affairs and prepared to move into more permanent protection. It was supposed to be a nice, relaxing break after the stress of recent events, but being around Emily was anything but restful. Every time she saw the woman’s face, Myka’s heart leapt, only to sink again in the next moment. The two were identical at first glance, but it was painfully obvious that Emily was not Helena. Myka could tell from the way she walked, the way she talked, even an action as innocuous as a yawn gave it away.

But the biggest tell was in her eyes.

**……**

“You know, Myka,” Emily said one evening, “Just when I think I’m beginning to understand you, something like this happens and I have to start over again.”

“Excuse me?” Myka asked.

It was the final night of their stay in Cheyenne, and they were lounging in the newly redecorated living room — the debris had been cleared out and the window had been repaired on the Warehouse’s dime. Emily was sorting mail on the new sleeper couch, Dickens curled up by her side, and Myka had sprawled out in the armchair. Now, she sat up, setting aside her magazine and giving Emily a quizzical look.

“What are you reading about?” Emily asked.

“National parks,” Myka said, unsure of her line of questioning.

“What am I missing?” Emily wondered, frustrated. She tossed a pile into the recycling bin. “You flinch whenever I even mention the word ‘Yellowstone,’ but you can stand reading a twenty-page article about it. We can talk for hours on the phone, but you barely say two words when we’re face to face. I’ve offended you so much you can’t look me in the eye, but you make a point of organizing my cabinets the way I like them when you put the dishes away.”

“That’s not — you haven’t done anything wrong,” Myka said, flustered at the other woman’s sharp observations. “It’s… complicated. And I have not been organizing the cabinets,” she added defensively.

“Then explain it to me,” Emily insisted, ignoring the latter comment. She stood, Dickens falling to the floor with a yowl of protest. “And tell me what I can do to fix it!” Her voice rose, and she made a conscious effort to reign it in.

“There’s nothing you can do,” Myka said. “It’s something I have to work through on my own.”

“But you’re not alone,” Emily said, kneeling next to Myka’s chair and taking her hand. “Myka, let me help you.”

She stared into the dark, earnest eyes that represented the death of the woman she loved, and felt a cold fury rising to the surface.

“Don’t,” she growled, jerking away. There wasn’t much room to move, confined to the chair as she was, but Myka managed, pressing into a corner. “You can’t help me when you’re the problem.” The words were venomous, vindictive, designed to hurt Emily as much as Emily had hurt her.

It worked. The other woman rocked back, and Myka read the emotions crossing her face as clearly as an open book: shock warring with pain and humiliation, finally resolving into defensive anger.

“Well, I’m sorry that I’m causing you so much trouble,” she said, standing and turning away. “Next time I’m kidnapped, I’ll make sure to get killed so you won’t have to bother with me.”

Myka’s cold fury flashed hot, and she was out of the chair before she knew what she was doing.

“Don’t even joke about that!” She didn’t quite slam Emily into the wall, but the resulting thump was enough to rattle the picture frames. “Not when she sacrificed herself for you!”

The quiet gasp and the fear shining in wide brown eyes was enough to shock Myka back to her senses. She wrenched herself back, stumbling on the rug. A familiar heat echoed in the palm of her hand, and she sank to the floor with a choked sob.

She heard Emily’s cautious approach, and the other woman slowly crouched beside her, gently wrapping her in a warm embrace. Myka felt silent tears leaking from her eyes, and let herself imagine it was Helena’s arms around her, Helena protecting and comforting her.

“I’m so sorry,” Emily whispered, intruding on the illusion. “I wish I —”

Myka silenced her in the quickest way she could.

For a moment, Emily was frozen, but then she let out a soft moan, and the sound was so _Helena_ that Myka lost herself. The kiss deepened, and Myka ran a hand up the other woman’s arm, drawing her in and pressing tightly against her. She needed this, needed to stop thinking, needed to feel as much of Helena as possible —

“Myka…”

She froze, then pulled away very, very slowly, taking the other woman’s shoulders and looking into her eyes.

“What…?”

“I’m sorry,” Myka said stiffly, woodenly. “I didn’t mean to do that.”

She stood and marched out of the apartment, almost slamming the door behind her (catching a glimpse of Emily sitting shakily on the floor, every line of her body screaming uncertainty and confusion). As she reached the landing, Myka’s purposeful stride vanished; she tripped on the first stair, catching herself on the railing, and took long, heavy breaths as her grip on the painted metal tightened convulsively. Tears pooled in her eyes.

_Emily is not Helena._

And Myka hated herself for ever thinking one could replace the other.

**……**

There were some days when Emily Lake — no, she wasn’t Emily anymore, she was Jenny Cole now — just wanted to collapse on her threadbare couch after a long day at work and sleep for a week straight. This, she thought tiredly, was one of those days. She sighed, sinking into the lumpy cushions without even bothering to change out of her uniform, closing her eyes and kicking off her shoes. She wasn’t very hungry tonight; maybe she’d just sleep through until her alarm went off the next morning…

A hesitant knock on the door startled her out of her light doze, and for a moment, Emily-Jenny contemplated ignoring her visitor. Then she sighed again, heaved herself up, and padded silently to the door, running a hand through her sleep-tousled hair to bring it back to order.

The knock sounded again, louder this time, and she reached for the knob before shaking her head ruefully and looking through the peephole instead. How many times had she been told — ?

Suddenly wide awake, she opened the door with shaking hands, staring in disbelief at the figure standing outside her apartment.

“Hi,” Agent Myka Bering said quietly, tucking her hands into the pockets of her suit jacket. “Can we talk?”

Numbly, Emily stepped aside, letting the Secret Service agent into her apartment, and taking the opportunity to study her as she settled at the kitchen table. It had only been two years since they had last seen each other, but Myka looked as though she had aged twice as much, with heavy purple shadows under her eyes and new lines creasing her brow. Her posture was tired and slumped; her button-up shirt was untucked and slightly wrinkled. Her hair was lighter than before, and hung in wild curls. It was a good look, Emily decided, suddenly feeling very self-conscious in her faded waitress uniform.

“Can I get you anything to drink?” she offered, remembering her manners before the silence grew too deep.

Myka politely declined, and Emily sank warily into the seat across from her, unsure of what to expect. They hadn’t exactly parted on the best of terms — unbidden, a memory unfolded, as clear and as sharp as if it had happened only seconds ago — Myka leaving the apartment, shoulders pulled taught with… frustration? anger? as Emily caught her breath, waves of confusion and arousal crashing over her —

“I owe you an apology for that night,” Myka said, as if reading her mind, “and an explanation. I can’t promise you’ll like it, but you deserve it anyway.”

“Why now?” Emily whispered, feeling an inexplicable chill run up her spine. She wrapped her arms protectively around herself, trying to rub the warmth back in. “It’s been _years_ since —” she cut herself off before her voice could waver and betray her uncertainty.

“We finally flushed out the last of Sykes’ network,” Myka said. “You’re not in danger anymore.”

“And why, exactly, was I in danger?” Emily asked sharply, unable to shake the bitterness of two years’ silence, filled with unanswered questions. She bit her tongue, feeling unexpectedly guilty when Myka let out a barely perceptible flinch.

“There was… information that Sykes needed,” Myka said carefully. “He thought — you have a strong resemblance to the person who had it.”

“H.G. Wells.” Emily had managed to piece together this much.

“Yes,” said Myka.

“Not the same H.G. Wells —” Of course she’d made the connection, she was an English teacher, but there was no way —

“Yes,” Myka repeated. “That H.G. Wells. The mind behind the greatest and most innovative ideas of the Victorian era.” She paused, seemingly waiting for Emily’s reaction.

The sheer impossibility of the statement meant it took a few moments to process. “You must be joking,” Emily said at last. “What possible resemblance can I have to a one hundred and fifty year old man? Who’s been dead for about seventy years, by the way,” she added.

Myka shook her head. “H.G. Wells was a woman, writing with the help of her brother’s status,” she explained. “And that’s not the strangest part,” she said apologetically.

Emily felt quite sure that she would have collapsed by now had she been standing instead of sitting, and wondered what else Agent Bering could possibly say to surprise her.

“You understand this is top secret,” Myka warned. “And it might be a bit hard to swallow. I’d understand completely if you’d rather not know.”

“No,” Emily said quickly. She’d been waiting too long for these answers, and she was not about to let them slip away, no matter how hard to swallow they might be. “Please, tell me.”

Myka sighed. “Hel — H.G. worked in a place called Warehouse 12, over a hundred years ago. Her mentor designed a lock that Sykes needed to open, and H.G. was the only person alive who had the key. She’d been cryogenically frozen,” Myka explained as Emily opened her mouth, “and thawed about three years ago.”

“What was behind the lock?” Emily asked instead. “What did Sykes want so badly?”

“Warehouse 13,” said Myka, and fiddled with the buttons near her collar before catching herself and folding her hands on the table.

“Where you work,” Emily filled in, remembering hushed voices from conversations half-faded with age.

Myka nodded. “We’re not just a regular old warehouse; we have more than the standard merchandise on our shelves. Sykes wanted these artifacts for himself, wanted to use their power irresponsibly, no matter the consequences.”

“What kind of artifacts?” Emily asked.

“Mirrors that can trap you behind glass and leave a sociopath in your body. Armor-forged spoons that can make you strong, then combust you from the inside out. Shakespeare’s Lost Folio, which makes you reenact the death shown on the page you touch.” Myka looked away. “A Roman coin that can take away someone’s entire life, and make her into a whole new person.”

Emily frowned, catching the strange significance placed on the final item. Myka peered up at her through thick eyelashes, a deep sadness evident in the lines of her face.

It clicked. “Oh,” Emily breathed, head spinning. “Oh.”

It fit. It all fit. The amnesia that had stripped away the first thirty years of her life. Myka’s odd back-and-forth from familiarity to cold formality. Her uncanny resemblance; the Roman coin.

“Are you alright?” Myka asked worriedly.

“What’s my name?” she whispered.

“Emily —”

“No!” she cried, lurching to her feet, chair skittering away behind her as Myka started away from the table. “What’s my name?!” Her breath hitched; she ignored it, locking eyes with the woman standing across the room, forcing soft words past the tightness in her throat.

“Who am I?”

For a moment, Myka stared back silently, tears beginning to gather at the corners of her hazel eyes.

“Helena,” she said finally, quiet and heartbroken. “Helena Grace Wells.”

For the first time in two years, Myka’s arms wrapped around her, and Emily-Helena let herself cry.

**FIN**

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from “Sour Times” by Portishead, which played at the end of Helena’s first episode, “Time Will Tell.” I thought it’d be appropriate to bring it back for her last, and the lyrics fit pretty well.
> 
> Also, Jenny Cole is an alias used by Stacie Monroe from Hustle, played by Jaime Murray.


End file.
